Hybrid Zone Recognition

by C. E. Glines

  Using the tweezers, I collected the other casings and put them in a baggie. I didn’t know what good it would do me, but evidence was evidence.

  Turning in a circle, I surveyed the rest of the area. There were definite signs of a struggle, but no blood. Perhaps Kenny had been telling the truth about not killing anyone, though there were plenty of ways to kill someone without shedding blood.

  “Bright side, Macy, remember?” I scolded myself.

  There were animal tracks on the ground where the dirt was softer. Kneeling down, I placed my hand in one of the imprints left behind. It was much larger than my hand.

  Looking up from the paw print, I saw fur stuck to the bark of a nearby tree. Using the tweezers again, I worked the fur free and studied it a moment. It might not be related to this at all, but I put it in a baggie, just in case.

  Further up the tree, there were fresh claw marks. By the spread, I thought they probably belonged with the prints on the ground. The prints on the ground, however, did not have claws attached.

  Kenny didn’t have paws, claws or fur. That left only the sharpshooter. A sharpshooter with those features implied another hybrid. Was someone from the Colony protecting Kenny? But if that was the case, then why would Kenny have fought them? And how would a hybrid have become an expert sniper under the noses of the guards?

  I frowned at the conflicting evidence as I took one last pass through the scene. I almost missed the dull gray object barely sticking out of the ground. By the footprints crisscrossing it, I’d apparently stepped on it several times already.

  I nudged it with the toe of my boot, but it didn’t move very much. I knelt down and used my hands to clear away some of the dirt. I didn’t see any pins or rings like what I thought I would find on a grenade. Because I’d already stepped on it, I knew it wasn’t a land mine.

  I carefully worked it loose and then used my shirt to wipe away the dirt. It looked like some kind of weird tongue depressor. I turned it over in my hands and recognized the lens right away. It was some kind of camera. Cameras usually had serial numbers. I put it in baggie number three.

  Seeing no more clues, I tucked the little bags of evidence away in my duffle and began the long trek back to my truck.

  I saw Miranda before she saw me. She had the radio going full blast and was dancing wildly—as much as she could within the confines of the truck—to the local country station.

  I really should remember to never let her stand guard again.

  She turned the music down and called a greeting through the open window when she saw me. “Welcome back.”

  “Good to be back,” I answered her.

  “I see you managed to stay in one piece,” she said, her eyes lingering on the spot where the tree had staked me. I knew there was blood. Head wounds always bled a lot.

  “One piece is always good,” I said. “Except when it comes to dessert.”

  “Two pieces of dulce de leche caramel cheesecake are divine,” she sighed.

  “Definitely a match made in heaven,” I agreed.

  We both envisioned that little piece of heaven while I closed the distance between us.

  As I reached for the door handle, Miranda shook herself out of her sugar and cream cheese induced daydream. “I saw Kenny,” she said. “He waved as he leapt across the road.”

  “Leapt, you say?” Huh? “Did he happen to be covered in fur?”

  “No, just regular Kenny in all his leaping glory.”

  I opened the back door and chunked my bag in. “Now his leaping is glorious?” I asked, looking at her sideways as I set my gun down on top of the duffle.

  “I saw the leap,” she said while hanging over the seat as she stowed the equipment in the back. “Definitely glorious.”

  “Recorded?” I asked hopefully.

  “Not a chance,” she laughed.

  I slung the back door shut. Dad gum it again. Nothing to show for this outing but bug bites and a heart spike. Actually, three heart spikes. That ought to count for at least one work out.

  I opened the front door and pulled myself into the truck. I turned to find Miranda holding her nose.

  “Seriously?” I said, narrowing my eyes at her.

  “As a heart attack. Dang girl, you stink. With a capital P,” she said while furiously waving her free hand in front of her face.

  Ignoring her theatrics, I started the truck and rolled the windows up. Air conditioning, now that was something glorious.

  “You are not a bouquet of roses either,” I informed her as she continued her histrionics.

  “At least I didn’t sleep in raccoon poop or possibly with skunks,” she managed to choke out between ragged breaths.

  And the Oscar goes to…

  “I think I would have noticed if I’d slept with skunks,” I said indignantly. “And stink doesn’t even start with a P,” I argued while swinging the truck in a wide U-turn. Just to check, I sniffed my shirt. I had to admit the scent wasn’t pleasant. “Maybe on the sleeping in poop,” I conceded.

  “Oh, I think it’s a definite on the poop, and the P belongs to Peeyew.”

  I sniffed my shirt again. It didn’t smell that bad. Maybe I’d gotten used to the smell. That did happen.

  “Do you have a tissue?” she asked. “My eyes are watering so bad.”

  I rolled my eyes and kept driving. She’d get over it when she got over it. Anyway, I needed to figure out how to tell her about Kenny. I wasn’t exactly sure what to say that wouldn’t freak her out. I practiced the conversation in my head.

  Hey Mir, Kenny could be a hybrid pyscho killer. Too frank. I needed to soften it a little. Then there was the other important part. Also, I may have inadvertently agreed to aid in a teenage hybrid rebellion against the government. Nah, best to leave the last part out.

  “I think Kenny just crossed over from being annoying teenager to potential threat,” I told her.

  “What, did he stay in the woods as long as you? And what the heck happened to your face?”

  I glanced over at her. She was dabbing her eyes with leftover fast food napkins. Drama queen.

  “Yeah, ok, enough. I’m serious. He took out whoever was shooting at me.” I should have said whatever, but I thought that might be too much information for her to process, especially given her current state.

  I snuck a glance at my face in the rear view mirror. Good grief! I looked like I had the measles. I must never ever camp again without mosquito protection. I was really surprised Kenny had refrained from commenting on it. He usually took every opportunity he could to zing me.

  Miranda coughed suddenly and loudly, drawing my attention once more. My eyes widened as she smothered a gag in her wadded up napkins. There was no puking allowed in my truck. To be safe, I rolled her window down. She put her head so far out the window that if she’d had a long tongue, it would have been flapping in the breeze.

  We rode in silence for a while until she pulled her head back in long enough to ask a question. “Where’d he take him?”

  I gathered she was referring back to my previous comment about Kenny taking out the assailant. “I have no idea,” I said, shaking my head. I really didn’t.

  CHAPTER 2

  “SOUP’S ON!” MIRANDA YELLED FROM the kitchen of our rented house.

  Having tired of the repeated hotel stays pretty quickly, we had rented a little wood frame house in a definitely old but decent neighborhood on the outskirts of New Orleans. It kept us within easy driving distance to work, and boudain was even closer. It was a win win all around.

  I walked into the kitchen still towel drying my hair. I smiled as I recognized the scent. Soup today was gumbo. Yum, and again, yum. For a northwesterner, she could make a pretty good gumbo. That was good because I was a pretty good eater.

  As usual, she had the television blaring. Most people opted for the small television in their kitchen. Since we spent most of our time there, we had installed a fifty inch right behind the table. Sometimes, it was like they were seated there with us
. We thought about getting one of the new 3D versions, but decided it would add too much trauma if it seemed like they were reaching for our food all the time.

  I laid my towel across the back of the nearest chair and picked up the bowl and spoon Miranda had placed there. She was better than she knew at the homemaker thing. Someday, some man was really going to appreciate that about her. But for now, that was joyfully my job.

  “Thanks for cooking,” I said as I walked over to the stove.

  She’d even made rice. I ate just about everything with rice. It was cheap and filling and how I grew up. I didn’t know if it was because my Mom was originally from Louisiana or because we were poor. As long as it tasted good, I didn’t care one way or the other.

  “Wait until you taste it to thank me,” she said through a mouthful.

  We weren’t big on formality here at M&M’s. Good taste was required, but manners were strictly optional.

  I spooned in rice and ladled the gumbo over it. It was chicken and sausage this time, my favorite gumbo combo.

  When I heard the special alert signal interrupt the current program, I turned to watch the screen. The on air reporter was a woman I didn’t recognize, but that wasn’t surprising given how little television I watched.

  “We interrupt this program to bring you the latest from Capitol Hill,” she said. “As a result of the report issued by the extremist group, God’s Light, Congress has decided to call for hearings on a possible investigation into the purported actions of the HCF.”

  Translation, they were going to have hearings to see whether they were going to have hearings. I wondered how long they’d chase their tails this time.

  Recent events included an extremist report giving detailed descriptions of alleged propagation of hybrids. The report included photographic documentation, some of which they were showing on the screen right now. I would have been more nervous, but I didn’t recognize anyone in the photos, and the report was centered on some place in Tennessee, a far cry from Louisiana. As it was, I just thought it was curious.

  “As you may recall,” the reporter continued, “HCF is the acronym for Hybrid Containment Force, the governmental agency responsible for the cessation of all hybrid related activities within the United States.”

  Miranda, who seemed completely absorbed with the update, had already taken her seat at the table. “She should do something about that hair,” she said while making little jabbing motions at the screen with her spoon.

  Glancing back up at the screen, I thought her hair was okay. The television lights just made the red look a bit harsh. “I think they just need to soften the lighting,” I commented.

  Miranda grunted in response.

  Crossing to the table, I hooked the chair opposite her with my foot and slid it out to sit down.

  How she could think that the most important aspect of the report was the state of the reporter’s hair was beyond me. The possible worldwide exposure of hybrid research, which could have serious, devastating repercussions for us, was right in front of her, and she had isolated that for discussion.

  I never would have noticed that detail without her pointing it out. She often pointed out details that I didn’t think important. Like a character from a child’s book, everyone should have a Mirandawumpagump for missed details.

  I snickered at my own joke. We were so different.

  She briefly cut her eyes in my direction, but when I offered no explanation, she let it go. Some things were just for personal enjoyment. Besides, if I explained, she’d only tell me I had reached the state of silly tired. She would of course be right, and I couldn’t let that happen too many times a day.

  Slowly, I began to mix the contents of my bowl while I watched the update. The news station was now airing a video of an extremist rally. The poor quality of the footage led me to believe it was recorded by the extremists themselves. They did manage to hold the camera still long enough to capture one guy’s rant. He very passionately listed “facts” supporting his claim of the government establishing a hybrid zone. All that was missing was the foaming mouth. The video ended with the camera taking a nose dive.

  The reporter came back on the air. “We apologize to our viewers for the poor quality of the previous video footage. In an effort to bring you the latest breaking news, the footage was aired without prior review.”

  The camera angle switched, and she began again. “The central charge of the report issued by God’s Light is the establishment of a hybrid zone within the continental United States. To clarify, the definition of a hybrid zone is an area where two species meet and interbreed with the resulting hybrid offspring maintaining distinct characteristics from either parent species and thus forming its own unique species.”

  When she said it, it sounded reasonable. It lacked the flavor of fanaticism that came with the extremist report. She made it seem totally believable. That was probably due to the fact that I already knew the government was doing exactly that. But the purely scientific definition made it sound too clinical. I had firsthand knowledge that it was everything but clinical.

  In my somewhat longer and much more convoluted definition, the two species that met and interbred were not a result of nature. They were created by humans. Also not included in the clinical definition were the two years of me sweating my butt off, constant travel, and the forever whacked out hair—thank you ninety degree weather and the humidity to match.

  “You going to taste it or just move it around the bowl,” Miranda said, cutting through my thoughts.

  I transferred my gaze to her and smiled at her sour expression. Miranda had a way of saying even the simplest of things in a tone of voice that made it seem like an insult or accusation. If you were not careful, you could feel immediately guilty, even when you were completely innocent. I, having known her this long, was highly aware of this, and thus, not moved by her manipulations.

  Ever so slowly, I lifted the spoon to my mouth. Her eyes narrowed to slits as she watched me. What were friends for, if not to rib each other every now and then? I closed my mouth around the spoon and sighed inwardly. It was good. Really good, but I buried that reaction.

  “It’s not half bad,” I teased. “You could probably get someone to buy it in one of the fine eating establishments they have around here.”

  She knew, as well as I did, that the only eating establishments close to us were a couple of mom and pop diners. Little more than holes in the wall really. But their food was good, to die for even. That was not a cliché. It was, after all, like eating really tasty grease on a spoon. Over time, I was quite certain that eating a regular diet of their offerings would most likely lead to an early grave. But you would be buried with a smile on your face.

  I brought another spoonful to my mouth, mindful of her persistent glare. I couldn’t keep the straight face any longer. “It’s good,” I laughed. “Really.”

  “You’re a real comedian,” she sneered with her upper lip curled.

  All I could do was laugh some more.

  “Just shut up and eat your dinner,” she said in disgust.

  She acted upset, but I saw the small smile she tried to suppress. Having firmly established her master chef skill level, we both turned our attention back to the television. I didn’t have the heart to remind her that I was the one who taught her how to make gumbo.

  The female reporter was back again, and now she was interviewing the president of God’s Light, a Mr. Kevin Randall.

  Mr. Randall looked so normal on television, but I knew he was crazy firsthand. He’d been in New Orleans a time or two, and I’d witnessed his vitriol close up. I didn’t think he had seen me either time. That was something else I owed Kenny for.

  But even if he could identify me, it would just be part of the good stuff that was now my everyday life as the number one HCF field agent. Yeah, good stuff, like death threats from extremists and harassment by the locals, who were clueless as to my real position. Dealing with the unbelievable bureaucracy that was the HCF was
its own particular delicacy.

  I forgot to include the growing list of actual attempts on my life. Somebody out there knew what I was up to, even if it wasn’t the wacko extremists.

  I looked back at the television as Mr. Randall started picking up steam. His face was flushed, and his voice had taken on a preacher like cadence. “If God had intended for us to be able to smell like a bloodhound, He would have given us that kind of nose…”

  “That’s an ugly picture,” Miranda commented, doing her best imitation of snarling like a dog and snapping make believe jaws.

  I grimaced as I watched her. It sure was. I didn’t know what it would really look like on a human, but the picture she was presenting wasn’t pretty.

  “…if we were supposed to swim like fish, He would have given us flippers not fingers—”

  The reporter interrupted her guest and said, “Then you must believe that if human beings were meant to fly, then God would have given us wings and not airplanes.”

  Score one for her. She’d just gone up a notch in my book.

  Her comment had the desired effect of stalling his rant. He looked completely flustered before he took a moment to gather himself.

  “The technology for flying and the alteration of human DNA are two very different things,” he said confidently. “As humans, we should protect our DNA, not destroy it by creating monsters.”

  I took objection to that. Hybrids were not monsters. Altered humans, yes, but not monsters. Incorporating animal abilities into the human genome made them humans with extra capabilities. But it didn’t change their personality or how they related to others. Granted they looked different than humans, depending on what had been altered. But they still thought and acted like humans.

  “Is it so different, Mr. Randall?” the reporter argued. “All technology is the advancement of knowledge of one kind or another. Each successive generation more advanced than the last. Your attempts to squash technology in this area may very well be dooming us in the future.”

  She’d interrupted him again. How very unhostess like, and good for her. She was right on the money.